




Class 



BookJLiSL&S 



CDEffilGILT DEPCSIT. 



CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
POEMS 



BY 



JOHN WILLIAM SCHOLL 



MDCCCCXVI 

ARTS AND LETTERS 

917 FOREST AVE.. ANN ARBOR. MICH. 



« ' 



«*<& 



,^x* 



COPYRIGHT, I916, BY J. W. SCHOLI, 



OTHER WORKS 

The Light-Bearer oe Liberty 

Social Tragedies 

An Ode to the Russian People 

Hesper-Phosphor 



THE ANN ARBOR PRESS 
PRINTERS 



>r 



/ 



OEC 22 1916 



GI.A453212 



Of This Book Two Hundred and Fifty Copies have been 
printed. The first One Hundred, with Frontispiece Por- 
trait, are numbered and autographed by the author. This 
Volume is No 



University of Michigan, 1916. 



CONTENTS 










A Hymn to the Sun 7 


Napoleon at Aix 










37 


Love's Triumph 










45 


The Ringee Dance 










49 


The Long Road 










52 


The Ideae 










55 


The Smith's Song 










57 


Lost Love's Return 










59 


In the Desert 










61 


The Dragon-Fey 










62 


Invitation 










63 


White Waste of Snow 










64 


The Perfect Rose 










65 


My Cat-Bird 










. 66 


On Mountain Heights 










67 


One Soee Star Fixed 










68 


When Lucia Came 










69 


Leaves Are We 










70 


Fra Eebertus 










7i 


My Shrine 










72 


Zephyr and Myrtee 










73 


A Memory 










74 



When Dawn is afire the Day-god waits 
On the rim of the east for the opening gates 
To give his champing steeds the reins 
And chase up the steep cerulean plains, 
Spilling his chariot's golden freights. 



To hold his image each dew-drop strains 
And dies of the glory its heart contains, 
Burst with a splendor that devastates 
When Dawn is afire. 



Bird-throats are shaken in woodsey lanes, 
Rose-buds are swelling with keen birth pains, 

Stirred at his nod to blood red fates. 

I too must sing till his spell abates, 
For his golden wine is in my veins 

When Dawn is afire. 



::-:z iw 



Tkt sibyl g- 

7 .- ■ : - - . ■ _ . 

_ - : — : : 

- 
1 : r : :: i~t - -r. 

I - -~ 

] tmaver . - 

1 : : ". - - 

7"t- v -— ::: 



8 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

O glorious God, 

Far-darting All-Seer, 

Smite with thy rod, 

With thy golden spear, 

Land and sea, 

Forest and lea, 

And wake young Pan 

From night's drowsy ban 

To love and its making — 

A glorious awaking! 

Smite the darkling stream, 

Whose clear pools steam, 

Till they glint and gleam 

And the shadow slips 

And slinks away 

Before the full-orbed day ! 

Smite bosk}'- glen 

And checkered grove. 

And prick again 

The nested choirs 

To new desires 

And shake their throats 

With happy notes 

Of jubilant love! 

And smite my lips 

To outsing the birds, 

That fair fit words 

In wedded throngs 

Rush into songs 

In life's high honor, 

To life's great Donor, 

To thee, the Immortal, 

At thy golden portal 

In the cloudy rocks, 

To thee and the nod 

Of thy roseate locks, 

O glorious God! 



A HYMN TO THE SUN 

Thou great All-Giver, 

All-Holder and Sustainer, 

Prayer and gift disdainer, 

Who givest and withholdest, 

And with equal eye beholdest 

All glories pass — 

Blade of grass 

And cassocked priest, 

Greatest and least — 

O radiant Archer, 

From out thy quiver 

Thou takest the bolts of living light 

And hurlest them into the night 

And infinite void, 

Where worlds o'erjoyed 

Lay bare their hearts 

To catch the impregning darts 

In a golden shower 

Of mystic power 

To stir them to mirth 

And riotous laughter 

Of a wondrous birth 

To be hereafter, 

To glad thee, Prodigal God, 

With multitudinous avatars, 

Thee, Bounteous Marcher 

On ways untrod 

Among the stars. 



io CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Bathed in thy flood 

The lush fields lie. 

Purple as blood 

Is the glory-barred sky. 

And the swell of jubilant life, 

And the roar of mighty strife, 

Sweeps like a tide 

Onrushing, wide, 

Resistless, round 

Earth's dawnlit bound, 

As thou peerest over 

Her dewy brim 

And chasest featly 

Night's fugitive rim 

That dodges fleetly 

In frighted grace 

And runs to cover 

Behind the girdling hills, 

Afraid of thy face 

And thy dispersing rod, 

O radiant God. 



A HYMN TO THE SUN " 



Thy bounty hurled 

Upon our world 

So fills and spills 

The cup of our feast 

From thy ambrosial East 

At thy immortal nod, 

O Prodigal God, 

We quite forget — 

Our lips with thy abundance wet — 

With thy wine and bread 

A myriad hungering 

Worlds might be fed. 

And thou art no mongering 

Niggard Lord 

That spares his hoard, 

But hurlest from thy treasure 

Without measure 

Gifts that beggar 

The wildest fancy of seer or poet, 

Hoards that stagger 

The soul that would show it, 

But thou art o'erjoyed, 

Abounder, to bestow it, 

Hurlest it broadcast into the void 

Of thy ambient sphere 

Incessant, 

Afar, anear, 

Ever crescent, 

Without return, 

To quicken or burn 

Where they chance to fall 

Prodigal, 

Abounding alike to all. 

Forgive if thy pensioners 

Ephemeral 



is CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Sometimes forget, 

The feast that's set 

Is but one crumb of thy royal feast 

Dropped down at the gates of thy purple East 

For the waiting lazar, Earth, 

That our riotous mirth 

Is but one note in the vast concourse 

Of hallelujahs flung 

To thee, the Ever Young, 

The Birth-Bringer 

And Mirth-Bringer, 

Ambrosial Singer, 

Choragus of the morning-stars 

Whose song no discord mars. 



A HYMN TO THE SUN 13 

O is it blindness 

From too long gazing 

On thy blazing 

Orient state? 

Or overweening pride. 

Thou glory-eyed 

Far-darting All-Seer, 

When mortals raise 

Sweet hymns to praise 

Thy partial kindness 

And thee, that goest 

Thy lofty way 

And scarcely knowest 

That they live? 

Dost even hear 

Faintly our exultant cry 

In thy purple-fiooded sky? 

And yet forgive 

Our erring clay, 

If, wrapped in thy perfect day, 

Our little seems so great, 

Our penury so Croesus-like, 

We cannot fear 

Thy hand will strike 

Our lips with hunger 

Or our flesh with cold — 

If our lips grow bold 

With the riddles of Fate, 

And we call thee younger 

Brother of man, 

Sumpter and slave 

In eternal ban, 

That bringeth seed-time and harvest unending 

To glad us wending 

From the womb to the grave! 



14 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Thou stirrest the daughters of Ocean to blow 

Their breath to the sky 

And build the clouds that go 

Like galleons drifting by 

With bellying sails, 

Freighted with Neptunean gifts. 

Thou smitest the hills 

Till they quiver and burn, 

And out of their rifts, 

From hidden caverns and nestling dales, 

The wind-wraiths yearn 

And rush and leap 

To the lazy floating argosies 

Of the skyey deep, 

And clutch and hurl them wide 

With scudding keels 

And wrecked and helpless pilot wheels 

In the mad tumultuous dance 

Of the Stormwind's bride, 

Till the far-off mountain peaks 

Gore hulk and sail 

And the far-fetched cargo spills 

In torrents of rain 

Through the driving gale, 

And the brown-parched plain 

With the spoil of plundered seas 

Sweetly reeks 

And is green again. 

Thou whilest 

And smilest, 

Bright God of Day, 

On thy lofty way 

Among the stars, 

And deep in the earth 

Glad things conceive 



A HYMN TO THE SUN 15 



And swell and heave 

And yearn to burst their icy bars, 

And leap to birth 

And thy welcoming kiss 

Of ethereal fire, 

Empyreal Sire. 

The warm mould stirs 

With a secret bliss, 

And brambles and burs, 

Grasses and flowers, 

Teasel and roses, 

All equal children of thy wanton hours 

With lavish Flora, 

Peep from the sod 

And turn to their radiant God 

With eager faces, 

As if to adore a 

Danae glory, 

And climb and clamber 

And jostle and riot 

In garden closes 

And meadows quiet, 

In highways 

And byways, 

And wild waste places, 

Eager to catch the amber 

Light of thy smile, 

Eager to sip 

With redolent lip 

The honeyed nectar 

Thou spillest the while 

From thy lavish beaker, 

Far-coursing Beauty-Seeker, 

Form-Perfecter, 

Lover, Reveler, prodigal 

God of earth's gay carnival. 



16 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

The oak swells his girth 

And spreads his crown, 

The beech feels the stirth 

In his bosom brown 

And laughs and claps his hands, 

The chestnut tugs at the rocks and sands 

For tighter anchorage 

To wrestle with storms that rage 

On his rugged slopes, 

The pine broods lone 

In his lofty zone 

And moans a dirge 

Through his beard of snow 

To the vales below, 

The wild vine gropes 

On oak and elm 

To sun her clusters on the topmost bough 

And bask in the heat 

Of thy cloudless realm, 

And hoard the sweet 

Inspiring wine 

Thou only thou, 

The Giver Divine, 

Givest for meat to bird and bee, 

Thy tireless choirsmen in forest and lea. 

Down by the stream 

In the valley broad 

The willows dream, 

And to worship awed 

The sycamores bend to the mirrored gleam 

Of thy image insufferable. 

On shelf and knoll 

The orchards blow 

And toss their roseate snow 

In lusty handfuls to the wind, 



A HYMN TO THB SUN 17 



And the golden bees 

In tireless gleaning 

From bowl to bowl, 

Drone prophecies 

But half divined 

Of pippin and greening 

For Autumn's table. 

On rolling plains 

The golden grains 

Flung wide by Ceres' happy hand 

Feel the lure of the summer sky 

And climb to watch thee loitering by 

At noontide over the quivering land 

And stretch their palms 

For a precious alms 

Of thy lavish gold 

To clasp and enfold 

And cherish and mould 

And dream of and love 

'Neath the azure dome 

Till they yield it again a hundredfold 

In Autumn's harvest-home. 



18 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Ah, what are we, 

Bright God, to thee 

On thy trackless way 

Amid the stars, 

That these, thy myriad avatars, 

With the fresh new day 

Are laid at our feet 

To pick and choose, 

Scorn or abuse, 

As seemeth meet 

To our proud will? 



A HYMN TO THE SUN 19 

Or hath pride betrayed us, 

And thou hast made us 

To perfect these? 

As plundering bees 

Perfect the orchid's flower, 

Perfect the garden's dower, 

Setting fair fruit on vine and tree 

For the song-birds' summer hostelry? 

They too may dream 

The good supreme 

Is a nectar cup 

For them to sup, 

Blundering, honey-drunken, 

Overswonken 

Dreamers sunken 

And glorified 

In their futile pride. 

They too may deem 

In their mad dream 

This maze of life beneath the moon 

A dull old riddle till they have guessed it, 

Sucked its meaning and expressed it, 

Boomed it and hummed it 

In a summer noon, 

And divinely summed it 

In a drowsy tune. 



20 CHILDREN OP THB SUN 

Ah well ! 

Let them swell 

In their bright brief hour! 

The end is still 

Dust — that may live again 

In rose or pippin or golden grain 

At thy quickening power. 

And if, perchance, we seem to thee 

But some less perfect flower, 

Or less melodious bee. 

Some vagrant unanchored tree, 

Or unburnished tuneless bird, — 

Wait 

At thy purple gate, 

For soon or late 

Some subtle change 

May lift us to the nobler range ! 

Or hast thou a rod to measure all, 

Both great and small, 

And knowest the soul's tyrannic call, 

The proud imperial dream, 

The godlike word 

Our lips have hurled 

Around the world? 

These too thy gifts 

That break through rifts 

Of cloud and clod, 

These too the deathless gleam 

Of thy ambrosial light, 

Disperser of Night? 

And we the nearest 

Latest and dearest 

Children of thy nod, 

Most glorious God? 



A HYMN TO THE SUN 21 



The little pools 

That lie in schools 

On plashy fallows 

And drenched meads 

When a shower recedes, 

And seem as deep 

As the vaulted sky 

With the cloud-wrack scudding by — 

Shall these thy secret keep, 

And dream they comprehend 

Thy far beginning and thy dreaded end, 

Because they hold thy image bright 

In their murky shallows? 

Or hath thy more ethereal light 

To our more perfect inner sight 

Unveiled a loftier vision, 

And wrought a grander dream 

Of thy life elysian? 

O Light Supreme, 

Truth Revealer, 

Heart and lip Unsealer, 

Touch my presuming lips 

With thy inspiring wine 

To sing without eclipse 

Thy life divine, 

In very truth, 

From thy far radiant youth! 



32 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Behold, 

Thou art old, 

From everlasting! 

Whence thou comest, whither goest, 

Thou alone, Immortal, knowest, 

But when thou wert young 

And lone among 

Far radiant neighbors, 

Thy arduous play 

Was catching comets by the mane 

And tethering them in the starry plain 

Of thy domain, 

Thy sterner labors 

The shaping and casting 

Of virgin spheres 

To girdle thee with tendance. 

On a golden day, 

When thy hand had skill 

To work thy will, 

And Luck, the oldest of gods, was merry, 

A fair new world 

Was deftly hurled 

And tossed and twirled 

With a mighty sweep 

In a lucky curve 

Round and round thee in the vasty deep, 

Never to tarry 

And never to swerve 

From her glad dependence 

On thee, Ambrosial Sire, 

And thy sustaining fire — 

Earth, thy favorite child, 

On whom thou hast smiled 

Well pleased to see 

Her beauty and her revelry. 



A HYMN TO THE SUN 23 

But a giant demon, 

Enamored of her beauty, 

Pursued her as a wanton booty 

With bold voluptuous eyes, 

Entranced, enraptured, 

And swore to make her his leman 

And lawful prize, 

Lurked in her path unseen 

Till she came like an orient queen 

Clad in a veil of mist 

That glowed like amethyst 

About her chaste 

New innocence, 

Then leaped and captured 

Between his outstretched palms 

The hapless fugitive. 

And so embraced 

And bore her hence, 

Shuddering, withering, shrinking, 

Weeping and ever thinking 

Of radiance lost, 

But helpless in the mighty clutch 

Of the demon Frost. 

And she had died 

As the demon's bride, 

At his icy touch, 

Hadst thou not pitied the qualms 

Of her mortal grief 

And brought relief 

And bade her live, 

Engirdling her with a magic zone 

Of frost-defying light 

To shield her in her lone 

Immortal struggle with the giant's might. 



24 CHILDREN OP THE SUN 

Stormcloud-Render, 

God of the lambent skies, 

Arbiter and moulder 

Of destinies, 

Lord of stout hearts 

And winged feet 

That fly to meet 

The imbattled host, 

Upon thy shoulder 

Girt with light 

Hangs the quiver 

Filled with darts 

To conquer and deliver, 

Great Agonist, 

In the unequal list 

Against the mailed pretender 

To the vacant throne 

Of ancient Cold, 

The eldest born of Primal Night 

That reigned on Chaos' frozen coast. 

Gird on thy armor, 

Stand forth to save 

The beautiful slave, 

And none shall harm her! 

Her heart still beats, 

And sometimes a shudder 

Startles the children on her breast, 

And topples their tiny magnificence, — 

Their royal seats 

And domes of pleasure, 

Temple and palace, 

Mart and spence, 

In ruin utter. 

Sometimes a mutter 

Alarms their leisure 



A HYMN TO THB SUN 25 



And dooms their jest 

When the ruddy chalice 

Is at their lips 

And their soul nepenthe sips. 

But for the rest, 

Tn the giant's icy arms she lies 

And slowly dies, 

A pallid queen 

With anguish mien, 

While the slow cold creeps 

Through her fair frail form 

And seeks the life-blood her 

Heart keeps warm 

In its deeps. 



26 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Fierce Lord of Light, 

Be swift to smite, 

For the crafty demon dies not 

And 'fore thy onset flies not, 

But loth to yield 

The foughten field, 

A cunning Parthian, departs 

The widening zone 

Of flashing gold 

Till, having lured thee in his hold 

Of boreal cold, 

With sudden charge 

He hurls thick blinding mists 

Before thy face 

And hews thy lessening targe 

And splinters thy crashing darts 

And drives thee pace by pace 

Across the gleaming lists 

Back to the round 

Of thy uttermost bound. 



A HYMN TO THE SUN 27 



Losing, winning, 

Winning, losing, 

In the never ending strife — 

We who know not thy beginning, 

Watching, wondering, 

Idly musing, 

Deeply pondering 

On thy bright ambrosial life, 

Question what shall be the end? 

Whither doth the conflict tend? 

Shalt thou wither, shalt thou flourish, 

Conquer in the fight, or perish, 

Victor or the victim be? 

We know not, is it toil or play 

To hold dull Death and Doom at bay, 

We know not, is it choice or need 

That lends thy flying foot its speed, 

Or hast thou reasons 

For thy caprice, 

Good Shepherd of Seasons? 

No answer cometh out of thy East, 

No oracle from bird or beast, 

To set at peace 

Our loftiest doubts and questionings. 

We feel and see, 

All cometh from thee 

In a haunting mystery, 

And a low voice sings 

From the heart of things : 

"Be of good cheer, 

Ye are dear 

Children of the Living Light, 

Well-pleasing in his sight. 

The glad All-Giver 

Shall deliver 

You from death 



28 CHILDREN OF THB SUN 

Though all else perisheth!'* 

And we plant our foot 

On the lush green sod, 

And without shame 

In thy great name, 

Ambrosial God, 

Possess the earth 

And her garnered fruit 

By right of birth 

From thee, divine 

Founder of our royal line, — 

And all the while 

In thy lofty way, 

Our strength and stay, 

Thou smilest thv inscrutable smile. 



A HYMN TO THE SUN 29 

Or dost thou hear 

From some far sphere 

A nobler hymn 

And sweeter praise 

Than seraphim 

Ecstatic raise, 

And our glad songs 

In vibrant throngs 

Are wholly drowned 

In that sweet sound? 

Or seest thou the adoring face 

Of prophets of ethereal race 

On belted Mars ? 

Or tired of futile wars, 

Disheartened by the losing battle, 

Counting when the conflict's done 

The little spoil th}' hand has won — 

Three handbreadths deep beneath the sod, 

A few brief fathoms in the sea, 

As much of thy ethereal air 

As an eagle's pinions will upbear — 

A little crust and scurf of life 

Kept only by unending strife, 

Too paltry kingdom for a god 

Like thee — 

Thou yearnest for some newborn world 

Unformed and void, 

To start some new aeonic year 

And perfect in its long career 

Life unalloyed, 

Pleasure uncloyed. 

Beauty fresh as the pearled 

Shy-hearted rose? 

And when thy yearning eyes 

Behold that, paradise 

Elect of thv desire 



30 CHILDREN OP THE SUN 

Swinging through starry skies, 

Waiting the seed of thy fire 

And the godlike race, 

Wilt thou turn away thy face 

And thy benign 

Bright effluence? 

Thy smile divine? 

And with stern look 

And pitiless nod, 

Slowly close 

The golden book 

Of our finished years? 

And despite our tears 

And blank despair, 

Despite wild pra3'er 

And witless prattle, 

Go calmly hence 

And leave us to our barren doom, 

The cold and gloom 

Of a splendid tomb 

Of dead magnificence, 

Inscrutable God? 



A HYMN TO THE SUN 3* 



Ineffable Glory 

Flooding the portal 

Of the voiceless East, 

Had st thou some far 

And bright beginning, 

Ambrosial star, 

With never a throe 

And never a wail, 

But perfect among 

Coequals yonng, 

Full summed in power 

From that glad hour, 

Flashing a sudden dawn 

The darkling worlds upon, 

And luring and winning 

Life from the clod, 

Far-darting God? 

Or art thou mortal? 

Dost thou mutation know? 

Wilt thou grow pale? 

Wilt thou, too, shorn of light 

And reft of manhood's might, 

Like us, grow hoary, 

And with, palsy shaking 

And thy great heart breaking 

To be released, 

Go tottering on thy way 

In deepening gloom 

Among the wailing stars, 

Thy radiant mates 

Whose hand unbars 

The unreluctant gates 

Of ancient Doom 

For thee, Bright God of Day, 

Thy course half run, 

Thy task half done, 

And orphaned worlds forsaken 

By pitying death o'ertaken? 



32 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Whence comes the golden shower 

Of mystic power 

That swells the bud 

And stirs the blood 

And sets the June clay simmering, 

And night's sown fireflies glimmering, 

And gay birds winging 

And madly singing 

Their happy loves 

In the checkered groves? 

O is it some golden legacy 

Of far Chronidean dynasty 

Uphoarded 'neath some dreadful spell 

When the old gods fell 

And yielded their throne 

To thee alone, 

Lord of treasures unending 

That wax with spending? 

Forgive if our unfaith 

Forefeel some sudden scathe, 

And measure thy career 

With the rod of mortal fear, 

And hearken our despair 

And anguished prayer! 



A HYMN TO THB SUN 33 



O Spendthrift God, 

With feet unshod 

We come before thee 

And implore thee, 

Heed our warning! 

Restrain thy lavish giving, 

Thy reckless, riotous living, 

Improvident Lord ! 

Surely thy hoard 

Is well-night spent! 

Or art thou coining thy heart of gold 

To fling it broadcast into the cold, 

Our wisdom scorning? 

Canst thou not see 

The end of all thy revelry — 

Bankrupt, disgraced 

Pariah chased 

From gate to gate 

By every starry mate 

Unmindful of thy fallen state? 

And we thy helpless progeny 

Must share thy wandering beggary, 

And hungering die 

Beneath a sunless sky! 



34 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Or art thou sent 

On ways untrod 

By some high god 

Whose will is Doom? 

And though thou care 

To heed our prayer, 

Thou art not free, 

No more a god than we? 

Thy path lies through the gloom, 

And why thou goest 

Thou scarcely knowest? 

Nor yet for whom? 

And whither thy journey tends 

Athwart black spaces 

Of ancient night, 

Thou knowest less? 

Or to what races 

Thy welcome light 

The Doom-God sends? 

And all thy fabled wisdom ends 

Like ours in a troubled guess? 



A HYMN TO THE SUN 35 



Thou kissest the tears 

From the eyes of flowers 

That open their hearts 

To thy golden darts 

In the matin hours, 

O God of light 

And of happy wings. 

Lord of all bright 

Instinctive things 

That pluck the day 

When it's ripe for play, 

Blot out our fears, 

That we may see 

Naught else but thee. 

With thy dispersing rod, 

Resplendent God, 

Dispel the mists that creep 

Over the soul's calm deep. 

With thy ambrosial light 

Shame thou our mortal night. 

Transpierce our wayward dreams 

With thy far-darting beams. 

Smite our close-lidded eyes to see 

Thy golden gift's sole sovranty. 

Illume our hearts 

With thy fierce darts 

And chase the shadow of death 

And doubt's cold wraith, 

Confirm our faith 

To know and see 

In very truth that we, 

Adoring thee, 

Or ere the day is done, 

Before our course is run, 

Shall have fulfilled 

The end the Doom-Gods willed. 



36 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

O great Lord Sun, 

That bringest in this hour 

From out thy dun 

Nocturnal bower 

This fresh new day 

With winged chance freighted, 

Though sternly fated 

To pass away 

Irrevocably swift, 

We take thy spacious gift 

As it is given. 

Lord of the riven 

Eastern sky, 

Unseemly pride 

Chastened and purified 

By thy baptism of fire, 

And all forbidden questionings, 

Like homing birds with weary wings, 

Sinking to rest, 

In tune 

With June 

And transient things 

In life's high quest, 

Great God of our Desire, 

With unaverted eye 

Let us adore 

Thee evermore ! 



NAPOLBON AT AIX 37 

NAPOLEON AT AIX 

Wait here, my Marshalls, — follow not within 

The august precincts of his Chapel Tomb. 

This hour is mine. 

***** * * 

They are my tools, no more, 
Wherewith I build my empire or contrive 
A scandal at the Court. What need they know 
In this vast business of our Phoenix France 
More than the pawn when he is deftly moved 
To take a queen or mate a king? They do 
My errands, and their destinies grow big 
With honors. Save for me their heads had ne'er 
Emerged above the seething bloody scum 
Of sightless anarchy. 

This Charles the Great 
Communes but with his peers. No fitting Third 
Can share this hour, unless that mighty Spirit 
Whose star yet blazes in mid heaven descend 
And flash the glory of Imperial Rome 
About us. What a consulship this world 
Had bent to, had Fate dared in one sole age 
Engender such Triumvirate. Old Earth 
Is cramped, and fragile is the race of men : 
Fate cast a thousand years between our cradles 
To keep her course unhindered. 

I am France, 
And here lies France entombed. O Brother Prince, 
Be not the awful dust thou art to such 
As deem thee dead, but come in panoply 
Of burnished steel that clanks about thy shoulders 
That bear untamed the whole embattled world, 



38 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

And make the pavement ring with lusty tread 
And dangling blade, and look with those dread eyes 
From under brows that rise sheer like a castle 
Upon a cliff's edge, Genius of Olden France, 
And bring the glory back that filled the world 
And rang through ten far centuries, and I 
Will greet thee, bringing our regenerate France, 
And beg a royal boon. 

Thou hast a crown, 
And I am crownless ! 

Lo, I go a journey, 
A long one, full of dread, for he who goes 
From doubt to resolution travels far, 
From nadir to full zenith. 

******* 

How it gleams 
And flashes radiance, blinding, luring, mocking! 
Caesar refused it — thrice! — when proffered him 
Upon the feast of Lupercal ! — He feared 
The people ! — Craven moment dearly paid 
At foot of Pompey's statue ! — 

Well I know 
That fear's temptation. Should I ride the streets 
Of Paris on the morrow, down the lanes 
Of loyal citizens whose joyous shouts 
Stun the far welkin, and should part my vestment 
And show one purple line, the sullen mob 
Could count the horses' footfalls on the pavement 
In the dead silence; not a cap would fly 
Into the stagnant air. I know these Frenchmen. 

First Consul — by decree! — They deem me naught 
But their own Hand, their Eye, their Heart and Will, 
And by that fiction hangs their fealty. 
A name can break it. 



NAPOLEON AT AIX 39 

How it gleams and glows, 
The Beautiful, the Fatal ! How it sits 
Upon his brow ! Its rays play round his head, 
Illuming ruddy cheek and snow-white beard. 
He speaks not — Yet his eyes play with dread Doom. 
Do they foresee, foreread in Time's Arcana 
Impending incarnations? What if he 
Should speak — and say: Adopted Son, kneel down, 
Receive my crown and wear it worthily! 
Should I refuse, as Caesar? 

There it gleams, 
Weaving divinity about his brows, 
Compelling mute submission. 'Twere a meed 
To dare damnation for! — Yet not dishonor! — 
A great King takes his crown — no gift, but rapine — 
Erect, not kneeling, worlds in awe consenting 
To conscious empery. O I am weary 
Of truckling to a mob qi pigmies ! — Faugh ! 

How tall! Full head and shoulders overtopping 

The commons. I was once the Little Corporal. 

A scurvy trick of Fate — my soul as lofty 

Looks him full level in the eye — to clip 

My stature so. Were he to toss his robe 

About my shoulders, it would sweep the pavement 

Like a queen's train, and round the Courts of Europe 

An universal gibe would run, and then 

Buffoons might win the Garter for a jest, 

Ladies would titter from behind their fans, 

And waiting-maids forget love-rendezvous, 

Or break Court etiquette, unchid, for very laughter, — 

As if some half a cubit more of worms'-meat 

Beneath the ermine made him more a king! 

The Will, the Might and Skill to make a realm 

And reign — these make a King. And I have made 

My realm and reigned, as well as mighty Charles. 



4o CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

First Consul ! — gift or sufferance — a stigma, 
Save that with infinite finesse and craft 
I drew all rights and powers to myself 
And set my heel upon the Senate. Fools ! 
To bear a yoke, yet tremble at its name : 
For I am France. 

Most sad, inscrutable, 
Yet godlike! Such a countenance of pain 
And glory, lit by thousand tongues of light 
That leap and play about his moveless brow 
As if to start him into life and tell 
By moved lip and flushing cheek and lit 
Deep liquid eye some secret of the world 
That lies beneath. I too at need can be 
Inscrutable as Death and Doom. No faction 
Can read my will and so misuse it. Prince 
Most enviable, thou hadst no need to make 
Thy face a mask to cover secret dreams, 
As I in this new age of licence named 
The Dawn of Freedom. 

Subtle must he be 
Who rules these French. Some old Republican 
Must fall to win the Bourbon, and the last 
Fair scion of the old regime must sigh 
His soul out in a prison yard at dawn 
Mid sullen crash of musketry to appease 
The incensed Republican, and I across them 
Move two steps nearer an Imperial Throne. 
The art of governing is simple else : 
Corrupt this one with office, that with gold, 
Buy this one with an Order, flatter that 
With public praise, imprison this bold wretch 
And pardon that, inspire the poet's song 
With gold and laurels, loose the orators' 
Sweet adulation, censor stage and press, 



NAPOLEON AT AIX 41 

And fool the mad fanatic with pretense, 
And if the madder factions still must rage, 
Hatch out some heinous plot in London town 
To breed assassins 'gainst the Glory of France, 
Or scent some mighty league of crowns and mitres 
To turn her dial back — send out the news 
Concoct of truth and lies — the Monitcur 
Will print it — Scold a British Lord at Court — 
'Twill please the chauvinist ! O I am weary 
Of all this despicable meanness ! 

Where 
Is that divinity doth hedge a King? 
I have no crown. There lies the subtle charm, 
The Talisman that sets him far aloof 
In that fine air where factions hush their clamor 
And baseness stands abashed, all hearts are tuned 
To perfect loyalty and unbought service. 
All arts and crafts there band together like 
A mighty orchestra, each plays his part 
In grand symphonic order, loving more 
The perfect music than his own small part. 

I too would lead my people, and so smite 
The startled ears of Europe with the wild 
Sweet symphony of France — a perfect piece — 
All discords melting into harmony 
And closing with a flourish of sweet sound 
Deathlessly memorable. 



4« CHILDREN OF THB SUN 

But the Courts 
Of Europe fear it, lest the noble strain 
Stir echoes far beyond the Rhine and Channel. 
Consul! A decade — ay, perchance for life! — 
Dictator, if the Senate choose— What boots? 
They bide their time, and wait for fickle Fate 
To plunge me from this pinnacle, or Death, 
The unconquered Agonist. There shines my Star 
Ascendant. Let them wait! 

Seductive Marvel 
That so transfigurest Imperial Charles 
And so begodst him in the eyes of mortals, 
Art thou that mystic power, or but a symbol 
Of that which subtler is and mightier — 
Legitimacy ? 

That must make me pause. 
My father was a Tuscan gentleman, 
My mother a mean Corsican, and all 
My vasty will, my vision, my ambition, 
The kingliest in me come alone from her, 
Her unspoiled blood, her undegenerate soul. 
I come from the Primeval, the Primordial — 
A shaft sent random, or a bolt of Doom 
Shot to its mark? — and better far the first 
Of virile dynasty than sapless last 
Of senile race decadent, dead, a corpse 
Embalmed in odorous Legitimacy. 

Then let them gibe and sneer, write epigrams, 
And play at shuttle-cock with 'parvenu', 
'Usurper', till they split. There shines my Star 
Ascendant. Let them sneer. 

Great Charles could count 
His noble forebears — royal, ducal — on 
The fingers of his sword-hand. 



NAPOLEON AT AIX 43 

I will found 
My dynasty, though Europe hurl her legions 
Upon my sword. I will repel her hordes 
As Charles hurled back the Saracen, and make 
My dreaded name a rampart round my realm, 
And dictate peace, and reign, acclaimed of all 
Keeper of Europe's peace. 

******* 

How mad a dream 
To haunt the pillow of a sterile bed! — 
* * * Josephine ! 

I do remember well 
The day she came to thank me for the sword 
Of Beauharnais I gave her son. Such grace, 
Such wondrous charm of manner, such fair speech, 
Such beauty — all that Nature and high Art 
Could make her — perfect woman. I knew not 
Love's passion till that hour. I wooed — and won her 
Like a great victory — And when she came 
From Paris to Marengo, such a light 
Filled all the camp that war grew instant glory, 
Like olden tournaments, and France's marshalls 
Grew knightly — marvels wrought they emulous 
To win her smile, as from an empress' lips. 
I find no spot in her — save one — she's barren. 
Why must she bear a brace of Beauharnais 
And not one Buonaparte? 

Should I sue 
To break the bonds — the Senate complaisant, 
The Pope grown pliable — 'twould raise a storm 
Of such wide fury in Camp and Court, must sweep 
My dream of empery to vasty ruin. 



44 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Speak, August Shade, if counsel may yet pass 

Those calm sealed lips. The chrism of Death was poured 

Upon thy brow, the sword fell from thy hand, 

The scepter passed. Couldst thou unmoved behold 

The mighty handiwork of glorious years — 

Thine — parted, ravined, spent, smirched, and despoiled, 

Quite blotted out, as if it ne'er had been? 

Old Europe dreams — and waits. 

I am still young. 
My Star rides in a happy House. I go 
To Notre Dame. My Josephine shall wear 
An Empress' crown. What more can woman ask? 
And when my throne is firm — she shall retire — 
France clamors for an heir. 

The proudest Court, 
Our old inveterate enemy, shall lend 
His royalest to scent our nascent line 
With that old feudal musk, Legitimacy. 
Then let them gibe and sneer. 

Lo, how it gleams, 
The Caesars' emblem, radiant, luring, speaking, 
With mystic message pleading — Here I kneel, 

mighty Charles. Make me thy son and heir. 

1 take the crown of France from thy dead hands 
And wear it — royally. No other power 
Henceforth shall bend my knee. 

I go a journey — 
A dread one — rude and lone — For he who goes 
From doubt to resolution treads the path 
Of Doom and Glory. 

Farewell, mighty Prince! 
A new Age dawns. My will is Arbiter. 
Tomorrow I. am Emperor of the French. 
Mv sword shall carve a name deathless forever. 



LOVB'S TRIUMPH 45 

LOVE'S TRIUMPH. 

Set Tracrav yvvcuKa, k.t.\. 
Herod. Bk. I, 199 



Vashti-Hauna, dawn-cheeked princess, 
Daughter of Asshur, King of Kings, 

Feels Astarte's tropic sunshine 

Burning at the heart of things, 

Feels it in the passionate riot 
Of her breast's imaginings. 

Vashti-Hauna, dawned-cheeked princess, 
Knows her woman's hour is come, 

As a lotus bud at bursting 

Half forefeels the perfect sum 

Of her sun-dreams and moon-yearnings, 
Half foreknows it — and is dumb. 

Vashti-Hauna looks to eastward 
From her tower in Nineveh, 

Looks and sighs — she knows the custom 
And the gifts that maidens lay 

On the altars of Mylitta — 

Knows the price her votaries pay — 

Gazes eastward on the temple 

Where the passionate throngs resort, 
Then upon her swelling bosom 

And her young limbs' queenly port, 
Praying for Astarte's favor, 

Triumph in her Temple Court. 



46 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

ii 

Vashti-Hauna, dawn-cheeked princess, 
Daughter of Asshur, King of Kings, 

Doffs her scented silken bravery, 

Veils and gems and golden rings, 

Dons the meanest menial raiment 

That her poorest bond-slave brings; 

Stains her limbs and neck and bosom 
Like a sun-kissed shepherdess's, 

With her deft hand draws the carven 
Ivory that holds her tresses, 

Slips unmarked amid the motley 

Throng that down the highwaj' presses. 

iii 
Haughty Shemir, Aram's daughter, 

Princess of the House of Shu, 
Rolls in pompous covered carriage 

Aisles of frighted pilgrims through, 
Scorning even to share the sunshine 

With that motley Syrian crew. 

Khazakhan, the Prince of Shelar, 
Rides beside her carriage door: 

"Room ! Make room for mighty Shemir 
Whom the sun and stars adore! 

Never hath such queenly beauty 

Trod yon Temple Court before !" 

Crack the eunuch drivers' lashes, 
Rear the horses mad with pain, 

Rear and plunge — The dusty pilgrims 
Terror-stricken seek the plain — ; 

Vashti-Hauna sole undaunted 

Turns with look of deep disdain, 



LOVB'S TRIUMPH 47 



Rises to her queenliest stature, 

Lifts to heaven her empty hands, 

Flinging Khazakhan defiance 

With her spirit's mute commands, 

Horse and rider quail before her — 
Mighty Shemir's carriage stands. 



IV 



Vashti-Hauna, dawn-cheeked princess, 
Daughter of Asshur, King of Kings, 

Bows her royal head in silence, 
But her heart within her sings 

As she treads the Temple highway 
Light as if her feet had wings. 

Khazakhan, the Prince of Shelar, 
Dumb with admiration stares 

At the mute Astarte vision 

As she toward the Temple fares : 

"Is it Beltis come to warn me 

Of the haughty Shemir's snares?" 



In the Temple Court the pilgrims 
Sit in long and braveried rows : 

Khazakhan, the Prince of Shelar, 
Down their aisles of beauty goes, 

Peering under veil and head-dress 
For the wondrous eye he knows. 



48 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Haughty Shemir leaves he sitting, 
Rank and wealth he passes by; 

Love that scorns all outward splendor, 
Worshiping it knows not why, 

Guides him to her place of biding. 
He with sudden joyous cry 

Tosses in her lap the obol : 

"Follow in JVlylitta's name!" 

Vashti-Hauna, dawn-cheeked princess, 
Rises, neck and cheek aflame, 

Stands triumphant: "Gracious Beltis, 
Take the gift thy altars claim !" 



THE RINGEL DANCE 49 



THE RINGEL DANCE. 

Valley steaming, 

Hillside teeming, 

Summer skips and smiles askance at 

Hand-clasped Hours that ringel-dance it 

Through the fields in mazy transit. 

Wheeling and fleeting, 

Merrily greeting 

Brawling fall and reedy shallow, 

Tangled copse and weedy fallow. 

And ever behind them a stridulous tune 
Sends a chill through the heart of June : — 
I need not look for the grim gaunt Fiddler, 
I know he is coming, the weird old Riddler, 
Ey his rune ! 

Roses blooming, 

Bumbles booming, 

Dipping, sipping in the swinging 

Sunlit cups, a moment clinging, 

Touch and away with reckless winging, 

Humming snatches 

Of drunken catches 

Overheard on the daisied hill, 

To the lily's nunnery white and still. 

And ever behind them the self-same tune 

Startles the drowsy ear of noon : — 

I know whose head o'er the viol is stooping. 
For rose-leaves fall and the lily is drooping 

All too soon ! 



50 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Sunny maiden 

Flower laden 

Trips the meads in summer fettle, 

Plucking the daisy's wizard petal 

Life's uncertain doom to settle : 

"Loves me, not, loves me ! 

O what behooves me 

Say to him, do for him, day-time or night, 

My hero, my king, my joy, and my light!" 

And ever behind her a maddening tune 
Floats o'er the daisied meads of June : — 
I need not look who swings the bow so, 
For I know the grinning old Virtuoso 
By his rune ! 

Coy lips cleaving, 

Bosoms heaving, 

Fancy plotting Love's devices 

Fit for orient paradises 

Hidden deep in an isle of spices, 

Soft eyes yearning, 

Passions burning, 

Soul concentered in a kiss 

Demons envy and angels miss. 

And ever behind them a grisly rune — 
A terror stalking in Love's full noon : — 

For 'Carpe diem' is the Fiddler's motto 
And a scythe-clang sounds in each sharp 
staccato 
Of his tune ! 



THB RINGBL DANCE 51 

Sweet-tongued singer, 

Beauty bringer, 

Poet of the woodland's chatter, 

Ear attuned to the distant patter 

Of dancing feet of nymph and satyr, 

Eye enraptured, 

Senses captured 

By the pomp of Earth, the splendor 

Of the spirits that attend her. 

And ever behind him the same weird tune 
So near — O the glory and gladness of June ! — 

His skull is crowned with the victor's laurel — 
But not for the poet — I know the moral 
Of his rune ! 



52 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



THE LONG ROAD. 

There's a long long road lying white in memory's light 
And it's traveled but by phantoms of a wistful long 
ago. 
I can see them trooping trooping, and I love the eerie 
sight, 
And I march keeping step with the kindly ghosts I 
know. 

It comes from out the woodlands and it runs into the 
hills 
Straight and white o'er hill and hollow with the 
green on either hand, 
And I follow follow follow, till my heart with sunshine 
fills 
At the crunch of happy footsteps in that fair lost 
land. 

And I haste to overtake her in her jaunty cap and plaid 
Till she turns to meet my greeting with a frank and 
hearty smile 
And a flush of rosy welcome that makes the morning 
glad 
As we trudge the miles together to the school-house 
stile. 

Now we reach the stately elm-tree with its lofty grape- 
vine swing 
Where we braved the teacher's ferule and the far- 
off warning bell 
Just to try the strange sensation of two birds upon the 
wing 
As they fly in mated cycles under love's strong spell. 



THE LONG ROAD 53 

There too lies the grassy clearing in the woodland where 
we played 
Drop the kerchief, and her red lips with a dawning 
passion swelled 
As another caught and kissed her, and my heart a tu- 
mult made 
That my own hard-won success and blushing guer- 
don hardly quelled. 

Here the broad marsh fringed with blue-flags, cat-tails 
and sweet calamus 
Where we teased the nesting black-birds and the 
lily-striding frogs, 
And with pebbles shied among them with a cunning 
perilous 
Made the stolid Parsee turtles slide from off their 
sunny logs. 

Now we pause beneath the bur-oak with its gnarled and 
spreading form 
That so kindly tented o'er us on one far ambrosial 
night 
When the singing- school was over and she clung so 
close and warm 
That we loved to linger sheltered from the full 
moon's light. 

Hard before us lies the hollow where the rail-fence 
piled snow billows 
White and fluffy, and we dared the Storm-king's 
elemental powers — 
Like a pair of sleepy children flung ourselves on Win- 
ter's pillows, 
And with intertwined initials marked the virgin 
bed as ours. 



54 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

Not a foot of that white road-way but is radiant with 
her presence, 
Yet if I should clasp the phantom as Ixion's cloud- 
bride thin, 
All the madness would o'erwhelm me of the end of 
earthly pleasance — 
I whose acres lay in Cloud-land lacked the heart 
to woo and win. 

the long long road lying clear in memory's light 

That is traveled but by phantoms of the long long 
ago! 

1 can see them trooping trooping, and I love the friend- 

ly sight, 
So I march keeping step with the kindly ghosts I 
know. 



THE IDEAL 55 

THE IDEAL. 

I had a dream. 

"The empty darkness burst to bloom 

Like a vast hushed lily-bud, all white and glorious, 

And smote my soul with ever-widening spheres of per- 
fume, 

And flooded her surprised sense with wave on wave of 
serene light. 

The lily's heart disclosed a virgin form, 

All pure as snow, of loveliest mien, 

Such as the artist-lover's soul 

Dreams in supreme moments of creative power, 

As if the chisel had for once attained 

The master miracle, a perfect piece. 

Her eyes beamed on me, 

With sweetest invitation, half concealed. 

Her lips grew red and full 

As if her spirit waited there 

To rush in rapturous kisses on the brow 

Of her elected lord. 

The hot hunger of my soul o'erpowered me. 

With passionate arms, and heart loud-beating in exces- 
sive joy, 

As once Pygmalion when he gazed entranced 

On his own marble dream made flesh through love, 

I clasped her, held her, one ecstatic moment, 

And covered her white breasts with kisses. 

The glad tears burst from their unwonted springs 

All uncontrolled and fell upon her. 

A subtle tremor went through all her frame. 

And then with her white hand she caught the pearling 
drops 

And drank them, sighing. 



56 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

She touched my brow and spake: 

"Lo ! I have sealed thee mine, beloved !" 

And v/hen I looked into her eyes, 
They vanished like fair sister stars 
Withdrawn to inaccessible deeps of night, 
And stood fixed in imperishable beauty. 
Her white form slipped from my embrace 
And I awoke with choking sobs. 

Since when all the world is grown less fair. 

I see her glide athwart all earthly -forms, 

That straightway pale and wither, 

Their radiance by her splendor dimmed. 

And thus I wander through the vacant years 

A joyless soul, (and yet not asking joy,) 

Nor smile, nor weep, 

Until I find her, clasp her, 

Though I must pass the ninefold barred and mystic 

gates 
To win her. 



THE SMITH'S SONG 57 

THE SMITH'S SONG. 

I hammer my Will into stubborn steel. 

A god in me chooses the form. 
When the white-hot metal's rebellion I feel 
Hot passions into my right arm steal 
And make the reverberant anvil peal 
While sparks like crinkled lightnings reel 
In a storm : 
For whatever I fashion with might and skill, 
Cling, clang, 
Cling, clang, 
Is ever my will, my will, my will ! 

I hammer my Will till the steel is cold. 

Sometimes I call it a share. 
The world that lay naked for eons untold, 
My will shall deck it with wind-blown gold 
Of harvests sixty and hundred fold. 
Go ! Furrows of brown through the virgin mould 

Uptear ! 
Whatever I fashion with might and skill, 
Cling, clang, 
Cling, clang, 
Is ever my will, my will, my will ! 

I hammer my Will from sun till sun. 

Sometimes I call it a hook. 
I send it abroad when the forging is done 
To trim wild Edens whose vineyards run 
Too rank for a world where perfection is spun, 
For my will no Chaos from Order won 
Can brook. 
Whatever I fashion with might and skill, 
Cling, clang, 
Cling, clang, 
Is ever my will, my will, my will ! 



58 CHILDREN OF THB SUN 

I hammer my Will week in, week out. 

Sometimes I call it a shoe. 
My steed fares forth with his rider stout 
To carry God's message the world about: 
"One Love, one Law, one Dream, one Doubt, 
And one Salvation for gentle and lout: 
Be true!" 
Whatever I fashion with might and skill, 
Cling, clang, 
Cling, clang, 
Is ever my will, my will, my will ! 

I hammer my Will from birth till death. 

Sometimes I call it a sword. 
Rest bright and keen in a ready sheath 
Till the maddened foeman's insolent breath 
Shall sully our world with a threat of scath, 
Then leap and flash like the awful wraith 
Of the Lord ! 
Whatever I fashion with might and skill, 
Cling, clang, 
Cling, clang, 
Is ever my will, my will, my will ! 

I hammer my Will into stubborn steel. 

A god in me chooses the form. 
I forge on my stithy the commonweal. 
My arm and my word are its sign and seal. 
And whenever the metal's rebellion I feel 
My sledge makes the verberant anvil peal 
Like a storm! 
For whatever I fashion with might and skill, 
Cling, clang, 
Cling, clang, 
Is ever my will, my will, my will! 



LOST LOVE'S RETURN 59 



LOST LOVE'S RETURN. 

My hearth-fire burnetii dim and low, 

The fine air groweth chill, 
A darkness climbeth along the walls 
And thin shapes flit through the twilight halls 

Incessant to and fro. 
I feel them sweep like an icy breath, 
They whisk my cheeks with a touch of death, 

And my heart, it standeth still. 

My heart, it standeth a moment still, 

Then leapeth sudden and wild : 
"O is it my fair lost Love ye bear? 
O stay your flitting, ye shapes of air, 

And yield her to my will, 
For I fain would win her to my desire, 
Though her lips were ice to my lips of fire, 

And her star eyes coldly smiled!" 

My heart, it leapeth and will not cease. 

The shapes, they crowd around: 
"O we are the dreams that came to thee 
When June was abloom and the heart was free, 

And the soul was well-at-ease, 
What time we were all too chaste and cold 
For a purple-blooded youth to hold 

In love's embraces bound !" 



60 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

My heart, it quaketh and will not rest, 

My head, it bendeth low : 
"O we flit and flit till dawn is alit, 
And on cheeks where death's chaste lily-buds sit 

We breathe our wooing hest. 
For the hand she clasped was the hand of a boy 
That crushed the blown lily in eager joy 

To possess her fragrant snow." 

My heart, it trembleth and can not hold, 

My head, it sinketh still : 
"O stay your flitting, ye shapes of air, 
I know ye are fair, too white and fair, 

For arms of mortal mould ! — 
But I fain would clasp you and hold you now, 
Though your kisses were cold on my fevered brow 

And your wan breasts icy chill !" 

O stand, my heart, be forever still, 

And leap no longer wild : 
"O we are the spirits that tended of yore 
Thy fair lost Love whom we now restore 

And yield to thy chastened will. 
No more we flit till dawn is alit, 
But with folded wings a garland we'll knit 

At the feet of the reconciled !" 



IN THB DBSBRT 61 



IN THE DESERT. 

Three vultures wheel in slant-winged flight 

Above the desert's tawny stretches 
And wind down narrowing stairs of light. 

Beneath them like three guilty wretches 

Three shadows whisk across the sand, 
And each its lessening cycle etches. 

The goal the ominous obscene band 

Still shuns, or seems to shun, while seeking, 
Lies helpless in that pitiless land. 

Sand-choked beyond articulate speaking 

He follows mute with questioning eyes 
Those fearful gyres, those pinions reeking. 

Panting in horror vain convulsive cries 
He raves a maniac prayer for succor — 

Wards off the loathesome bulk and dies — 
Such sepulture hath Sheik Ibn Becar! 



62 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

THE DRAGON-FLY. 

Fanning with iridescent wing 
The dank airs of the reedy marsh, 
Darting in disport, elfin thing, 
Among the water-grasses harsh, 
Now clinging to some sedge's stem, 
Now floating double in the breeze, 
Thou art at times a living gem, 
At times a queen of sylphides. 
Innocent, beauteous, luckless sprite. 
Gorgeous daemon as brief as bright ! 

Had luckier fates thy birth-place set 

With snow-drop or with violet, 

With wild-rose or with fleur-de-lis, 

How happy were such lot for thee ! 

Painters would try thy gauzy wing, 

Poets essay thy grace to sing 

And wonder with half despairing sigh 

Plow lily and rose and world and sky 

Are mirrored in thy wide-orbed eye, 

And seers would dream of harmonies 

Fixed at the birth of eternities 

And babble of mighty wisdom still 

That planned thy sphere with prescient skill. 

What wondrous change a birth-place makes ! 
Each soul some fatal color takes 
From what it touches at its source. 
Thou sylphid beauty of the fen 
Art shunned and spurned by bearded men, 
And tender children deem thee worse — 
Confederate of an old world-curse, 
A feeder of loathesome slimy snakes. 
With clubs and stones, imbruted crew, 
Thy fragile grace they swift pursue, 
Striving to quench in reedy slime 
Too transient Beauty before its time. 



INVITATION 63 



INVITATION. 

I have no gold but the sunset's gold, 

No silver but storm-cloud's lining; 
I have no lands that are bought and sold, 

Nor castles of man's designing. 

But I have estates sky-rimmed and broad 
Where the breath of song is blowing, 

Whose wealth by love's own guileless fraud 
Is doubled at each bestowing. 

My wool is the fleece of vernal cloud, 

My silk the gossamer sailing, 
My purple the autumn twilight shroud 

When the happy day-light's failing. 

What lieth in reach of ear and eye 

Or Argonaut fancy's tasking, 
From the heart of the earth to the dome of the sky, 

Is mine for the simple asking. 

So come, my Friend, for an hour, for a day, 

For a life-time's happy straying, 
And arm in arm we'll wander away 

In love's perennial Maying. 



64 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



WHITE WASTE OF SNOW. 

White waste of snow, gray waste of years, 

I said and sighed, thus sadly linking 
The winter's glory with foolish tears. 

So much of beauty, to my thinking, 

And warmth lay buried under both, 
In death's white stupor mutely sinking. 

Earth spring and life's spring, virgin growth, 

Snow-drop and innocence, love and the roses, 
To see them perish my soul is loth. 

I know that under the snow reposes 
A death that is not wholly dead, 
But, couched and curtained, merely dozes 

And dreams of waking all purple and red 

To play with sunbeam and warm rains plashing 
And laugh at the sky where the winds are fed : 

But under the waste of years so ashen 

What dream is a-dreaming of dawns to be? 

Will the world-old rhythm in some new fashion 
Bring back the spring and the bud to me? 



THE PERFECT ROSE 65 



THE PERFECT ROSE. 

Ah me ! Who knows where the perfect rose 
From mortals hidden in beauty blows? 

In far off gardens of Gulistan? 

In Sharon's valley? Or neath the ban 
Of mage Laurin's Tyrolean close? 

Or fresh as when the world began 
And modest creatures fled from Pan, 

Just under my window it shyly glows? 
Ah me! Who knows? 

Or an airy nothing, a shadowy plan — 

A dream-flower burst from the heart of man 

To seal with beauty life's thorny prose? 

Then wherefore yearn for impalpable shows 
And scorn Reality's blushing clan? 

Ah me! Who knows? 



66 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



MY CAT-BIRD. 

My cat-bird sings — for June is here — 
From sweet syringa and spice-bush clear 
Her notes are shaken out again 
In showers of most melodious rain. 
I pause to bend a thirsty ear. 

Sweet witchery born of joy, not pain, 
Whole orchestra packed in a single strain — 
The oriole's gay, but without a peer 
My cat-bird sings. 

I peer through the spice-bush leaves in vain 
For a glimpse of her stage dress gray and plain, 
And her throat a-quiver, but I can hear 
Her soul expanding in a sphere 
Of ecstasy, when thus amain 

My cat-bird sings. 



ON MOUNTAIN HEIGHTS 67 



ON MOUNTAIN HEIGHTS. 

On mountain heights the air is keen, 
The sun shines cold, there is no screen 

Of warm gray clouds that valleys know. 

The eye, forsaking fields below, 
Expatiates in a lordlier scene. 

The heart beats bolder mid the snow, 
The breath comes fuller as we go, 

The soul expands and grows serene 

On mountain heights. 

When wearied with the sordid woe 

Of bootless errands to and fro 

Mid murk and men in valleys green, 
Look up where eagles sit and preen 

Their wings for flashing in the glow 

On mountain heights. 



68 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



ONE SOLE STAR FIXED. 

One sole star fixed while thousands turn 

Like cherubim that gaze and burn 

In heaven's mighty chariot wheel 
Whose vasty spokes harmonic reel 

Down slopes that seers can scarce discern. 

I too the cosmic cyclone feel — 
Pomp of mad dreams, storms that conceal, 
Where'er I turn, howe'er I yearn, 

One sole star fixed. 

The days whirl by, and scorn appeal, 

As if to hint, or half reveal, 

Some vast return of more concern 

Than a World's ashes in Time's huge urn, 

But never a vision clear to heal — 

One sole star fixed. 



WHEN LUCIA CAME 69 



WHEN LUCIA CAME. 

Was it a dream when Lucia's spirit came 
Breaking that blind transparency — whose name 
Nor bard nor seer has skill to sing or say — 
That walled me in from her who went her way 
And left me wondering at Love's futile claim? 

Upon my couch in some deep trance I lay 
When burst upon me that candescent ray: 

Could mortal tongue the idle question frame : 
Was it a dream? 

Too clear for sleep's remembering, clear as day 
The lips' touch, hands' clasp, eyes that love betray 

In love's reproof: "Is oft-sworn faith so lame? 

So unexpected? Farewell!" In my shame 
Love flowered to madness, yet she would not stay. 
Was it a dream? 



7o CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



LEAVES ARE WE. 

Leaves are we that sit in the sun 

Where the wonder and glory of summer are spun. 
Guests for a time of centennial trees 
We dance with the gay young courtier breeze 

While the Merlin days pass one by one. 

The days, O the days ! What gifts are these ! 
Purple and scarlet and gold ! Who sees 
Their subtle magic till sere and dun 
Leaves are we ? 

Flown are the birds and numb are the bees, 

And we huddle in drifts round the gnarled knees 

Of unpitying hosts. Our course is done ; 

But their girth is ampler, their branches run 
Nearer the sky, for our golden ease — 

Ah, leaves are we ! 



FRA BLBBRTUS' "BSSAY ON SILENCE" 71 



FRA ELBERTUS' "ESSAY ON SILENCE." 

O gentle Book whose letter never dims 

The spirit's message ! Wise old Fra and kindly 
To help the weary soul that gropes so blindly 

In mazy book-marts ! Here his genius skims 

Wit's golden cream, his cunning deftly trims 

A flawless, fadeless garland, where combined lie 
All perfect meanings since the world designedly 

Made books — and critics damned them trunk and limbs. 

Most perfect Book, rare bible of our age, 
Pocket companion, friend, adviser, host, 
My Little Tourney on Bohemia's coast 

Is sweetened daily by thy sphinxlike page. 

'Silence is golden !' Yet who dreamed of old 
That she could turn white paper into gold? 



72 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 



MY SHRINE. 

Some fare to distant Mecca, some to Rome, 

Yet others to some nearer lowlier shrine 

More oft revisited nor less divine 
Than prophet's haunt or vicar's lofty dome. 
Each finds' a god there and his heart's true home ; 

But mine is lowliest of all — a line 

Of tumbling rail-fence clambered o'er with vine 
Embowered in dog-rose. Thither oft I roam. 

And still I find my goddess waiting there 
As when long long ago one golden day 
I met my first Love there at dawn of May. 

I plucked two roses for her raven hair 

And crowned her May Queen. Still on cheeks of 

snow 
I see that brace of lovelier roses blow. 



ZEPHYR AND MYRTLE 73 



ZEPHYR AND MYRTLE. 

Young Zephyr tiptoed in the long grave-grass 
To whisper Lady Myrtle on the ground : 
"Why keep the vigil on this sunken mound? 

Come out and play where happy creatures pass !" 

But mild-eyed Myrtle answered soft : "Alas ! 
Of loving footfalls I have heard no sound 
For endless summers. Swiftly round and round 

Days dance with days like jocund lad and lass. 

And still, sweet Zephyr, you're my only guest. 
Come, part the grasses, sit a while and rest 

Here on this toppled head-stone green and rotten. 
Fickle as wind is man, as April brittle ! 
Spell out the words — 'twill sober you a little — 

That loving hands carved: 'Gone, but not forgot- 
ten'." 



74 CHILDREN OP THE SUN 



A MEMORY. 

A white house stands upon a way-side hill, 
Tall pine-trees guard it in a double row; 
Their branches droop beneath the weight of snow, 

And moon-cast shadows lurk there midnight-still. 

The envious winter wind blows crisp and chill 
And swings the yard-gate sharply to and fro : 
"Whose are the dainty foot-prints there?" I know — 

The old gate knows — and feels his dull wood thrill. 

The winds of many winters blow and blow 

To drift those dainty tell-tales deftly over; 

The suns of many summers glow and glow 

To melt those runes of happy maid and lover; 

But mocking still the jealous seasons' spite 

They lie there glorified in endless light. 



Across the sea I send my freighted craft. 
Hope springs before her like a plumed shaft 

From Love's bow hurtled. On the wave-washed beach 

I watch the lovely hazard, and beseech 
Gray Ocean's daughters spare my winged raft. 



Ye gods above, below, I vow to each 
Meet gifts, if through yon billows' threatening breach 
My love-sped, hope-led ship ye safely waft 
Across the sea. 



What hecatombs, what temples roofed — O teach 
Me, Wind and Wave, to be your anger's leech! — 

Ye trumpeting west winds follow her abaft. 

Poseidon, spare her from your pronged haft! 
I hold my breath till she the haven reach 
Across the sea! 



